Old Tales Retold
by Archea
Summary: A series of crossovers and fusions, mostly literary. Check the headings for characters and pairings. Updated 9: Gilbert and Sullivan Singalong
1. Don't Judge a Book by its Cover

**1. Title**: Don't Judge a Book by its Cover

**Crossover**: Ray Bradbury and François Truffaut's Fahrenheit 451

**Characters**: Sherlock and John, mention of Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly and Mrs Hudson. Mystrade implied, S/J gen or squint.

**Rating**: PG

**Summary**: John and Sherlock (and the gang) have joined the Rebellion and become Book People.

He could hear Sherlock's voice over the soft lilt of the river, connecting the words together much as he had once connected facts and data on State orders. The recitant raised his head in time to see John wince and hug his leg as he lowered himself down on the bank.

"It still hurts, then."

John shook his head. "Yeah, bloody Hound. Less now, still. Lucky me, escaping with a genius who hid The Universalis Encyclopedia of Poisons in his landlady's collection of hatboxes."

"A mechanical bee-dog," Sherlock mused, still cradling the thick, no nonsense looking book in his hands. "You know, that's really a... mind-tickling concept. I asked Lestrade if he could provide us with a prototype when he last liaised, but he wasn't exactly complying."

"Oh? What did he say?"

Sherlock's mouth stretched into a lazy smirk before it released a gravelly staccato. "Listen, kiddo, I've got three fake busts to stage and the Captain breathing down my bloody neck, and not to check my lower orders either. Just piss off and stay put, will you?"

"He was being concerned for your safety."

"No, he was annoyed that he'd only managed to cover five more pages of Julia Childs." Sherlock didn't try to hide his complacency; his inner hard disk capacity had soon made him Book of the Year among the fugitives. The essay on his lap was the fourth he'd memorized ("engraved, really") since their arrival two months earlier.

"Fuck paperwork, said he, and went off to blaze another fake stash. Mrs Hudson's offered to drill him through the ear-piece but it's far too risky, all the more as she's been learning Exquisite Corpses and I'd hate to think of the consequences if Lestrade ended up confusing the two."

John laughed, crossing his arms under his neck. The river slough was lulling him half into easeful sleep, but he didn't want the talk to end, not yet. He looked up at Sherlock, squinting his eyes against a sun that no longer spoke of combustion and furnaces as it trickled down on them through the beech leaves. "Give us some," he asked quietly.

He could feel Sherlock's hand on his knee, grounding him to their speech, their nook of rest. "Men are apt to mistake the strength of their feeling for the strength of their argument," the beautiful deep voice recited slowly. "The heated mind resents the chill touch and relentless scrutiny of logic."

"Don't tell me you're recording your own opus, you git."

"No, no. William Gladstone."

"Gladstone? Wait a sec, didn't Mycroft call dibs on him?"

"Your lack of faith saddens me, John."

"Christ. Don't tell me you've been gobbling up the political three-deckers only to get one over on your bro." John chuckled. "Be a good chap, now, leave him some Machiavelli for dessert."

Sherlock gave him a pointed look and burrowed his nose into his book.

"What's that, then? Strength of feeling has left you without an argument?"

"Quoting a quote is waste of voice, John. Why don't you give me some, as you so aptly say?"

"Wouldn't want to inflict my book's opinions on you for the world."

Sherlock heaved an exaggerated sigh, putting Mr Gladstone aside for the second time. "And fishing for a nice review is beneath you, John. Out with it, whatever it is you're hiding in your back pocket."

"You might be surprised," John smiled. He raised himself on his left elbow, letting the sun bathe his face so that he wouldn't have to watch Sherlock's reaction too closely.

"_Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;_

_You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in._

_His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;_

_His coat is dusty from neglect..._"

"T. S. Eliot." Sherlock's voice was edged with disbelief. "What on earth made you chose The Old Possum Book of Cats? That's Molly's department, obviously. And we've got that stack of war novels Mycroft sent over from the Churchill Fund, I thought —"

"Well, you got it wrong." John forced his eyes open, facing Sherlock in the strong afternoon light. "Why is Lestrade memorizing a cookery book? Why did Mycroft lay claim to The Complete History of Football in Ten Volumes? Why am I learning a glut of poems about tall, thin, clever cats with high-doomed brows and martyrized greatcoats? I'll give you a clue, Sherlock Holmes. The whole damn point of rebellion is that you do it for others and because of others. Others. That's a starting point for you."

The river stream was the only audible speaker for the next five minutes, until John, who had dropped back into the shade, murmured "Problem?"

"No." Sherlock coughed. "John, would you mind if I, erm. Gave us some more?"

"Pleasure." But John kept his eyes closed.

He heard the rustling of bruised grass as his friend turned over on his side. "No man ever became great or good except through many and great mistakes. This is one I'll — be careful not to make again."

Sherlock's face, hovering under the sun, was a curious mix-up of certainty and hesitation. John lifted a hand to cup the speaker's neck. "I can't argue with you," he said simply, and waited for the quote to register. When it did, and he could pull down Sherlock to him, he stared at the sky past his friend's shoulder, and the invisible towns on the other side of the sky. _Try it,_ he thought. _Work your worst. Burn us if you can - but you won't burn this out of us._


	2. The Interview Oscar Wilde

**2. Title**: The Interview

**Fusion**: Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest

**Characters**: Mycroft and John, mention of Sherlock and Lestrade (S/J gen or squint, Mystrade implied)

**Rating**: PG

Mycroft: Do take a seat, Doctor Watson. A man needn't really stand trial on his feet: literalism, god forbid, is only one letter apart from liberalism.

John _(standing)_: I'm fine as I am, Mr Holmes.

Mycroft: I'm afraid you do not feature on my list of eligible flatmates for Sherlock, one that I share with the dear Detective Inspector. However, I'm quite ready to put you under surveillance, should you prove sufficiently honorable. How old are you? No, you needn't answer, that's an easy guess. Forty-one.

John: I'm thirty-fi...

Mycroft: Absolutely. (Anthea types quickly.) Do you drink?

John: Certainly not. I must admit, however, that I have a sist—

Mycroft: A cystic leg, yes, yes, I've seen. So demanding, legs - that's the lower classes for you. One wonders at Mother Nature giving us feet before chauffeurs: quite the wrong agenda, if you ask me. (He checks his notes.) Now, it is my opinion that in order to survive in my brother's company, one should know either everything or nothing. Which do you know, Doctor Watson?

John _(sarcastic)_: A little of each?

Mycroft: Excellent. I myself do not approve of radical measures as a rule; they always prove so oppressive to one's career. What is your income?

John: Well, I have my army pension. But I'm currently, er. Unemployed.

Mycroft: A man of leisure, then. (He sizes John up.) Afghanistan or Iraq?

John: Will you people bloody well stop asking me that? I'm not a greyhound species, for Christ's sake!

Mycroft _(fondly)_: Ah, I'm afraid this pet name is already booked. _(A discrete cough.)_ You would share a city flat with Sherlock, of course; the dear boy can hardly be expected to reside in the countryside, so unhygienic when you think of all that unwashed grass and soil. The flat stands across Regent's Park, which I'm told has become quite sanitary now they've built four European business schools on its outskirt. What are your politics, Doctor Watson?

John _(grimly)_: Haven't been back long enough to slap up some, Mr Holmes. Can I say my vote is for survival?

Mycroft: Oh, but so is mine, my dear fellow. Living above one's fellow creatures is a praiseworthy purpose; one that should be encouraged, though selectively. Now to minor matters. Are your parents still alive?

John: Well, it all depends, sir. Is this a literal question?

Mycroft: ... I'm sorry?

John: Oh, I should have told you that Watson is really my sister's name. My sister was eighteen when she found me —

_(Anthea steals a slanted glance at her superior's face and stops typing.)_

Mycroft: Found. _(He tilts his head aside with a contemplative frown.)_ May I ask you to expatiate a little, Doctor?

John: Glad to. She was travelling to Clara's place up North - Clara was her future ex wife, you see, worked in Derby at the time, so Harry would take the first train from St Pancras and have a bite at the station café. Which is where she found me, in an old gladstone bag. I was a month old at the time.

Mycroft (mouthing the words as if possessed by a demonic piece of toffee): A gladstone bag.

John: Yup. I've kept the bag, if you want a peep at the evidence. In fact, it's what got Sherlock interested in me - he likes the unusual cases, you know, and since there was also a gun in the bag —

Mycroft: The gun is immaterial.

John: Oh, I wouldn't quite say that. It proved pretty useful later on.

Mycroft: Doctor Watson, I must confess that I feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. A bag-gentleman is hardly what I wish for Sherlock to associate with. It is also unfortunate that he has little or no respect for transport, as this would be the focal point of your upcoming investigation. No, I must regretfully state that this interview is over.

John: Well, what can I do about this? I really want that flatshare, you know - and I could be the making of your brother, I could!

Mycroft: Possibly. But I'd rather avoid his introducing you to Mother as the offshoot of a tearoom and a piece of artillery. She is highly sensitive to the subject of firearms, has been ever since that wretched incident with Sherlock and the birthday goldfish. Anthea, would you be so kind as to drive Doctor Watson back? I have another candidate waiting.

_Exit John and Anthea. Jim Moriarty saunters in._

Ah, Mr... _(Mycroft checks his notes.)_ Mr Hightea? Well, you do not feature on my list of eligible flatmates, one that I share with the dear Detective Inspector. But I'm certain this exception can be remedied - with such a name, I'm guaranteed not to, ahem. Buy a cat in a bag. Haha.

_Jim smiles - a lissom, slightly feline smile - and takes the seat opposite to Mycroft's._


	3. Red Hairing Edgar Allan Poe

**3. Title**: Red Hairing

**Crossover**: E. A. Poe's _Murders in the Rue Morgue_ and A. C. Doyle _Red-Headed League_

**Characters**: Sherlock, John, Lestrade (S/J gen or squint), mention of Mrs Hudson and Mycroft

**Summary**: When Sherlock's cold grounds him home, John calls Lestrade to the rescue.

**A/N**: Neither fic nor title are meant to poke fun at red-haired people. If anyone is made fun of, it's Sherlock, and it's gentle fun.

Autumn, as far as Sherlock was concerned, had forfeited its duties by failing to deliver the promised mists and mellowness. Mist was the perfect atmospheric chemistry to stalk criminal along their nefarious, exciting ways; mellowness Sherlock associated vaguely with Mrs Hudson's parsnip soup and apple dumplings that were enough to placate John after a day spent exhorting stubborn old ladies to take their flu jabs like a man, and distract his attention from Sherlock's latest experiment with their loo sewers.

Unfortunately, the mists had soon turned into a steady drizzle, and a cold had caught Sherlock before he could catch the baddie du jour. The rest of the agenda had degenerated fairly quickly from that point. John, on his best officer-and-gentleman's behaviour, had grounded Sherlock to home base. Mrs Hudson had dug up an old recipe of rum jellies and experimented on every food colouring comprised between ultraviolet and sanguine orange because they were « all in season, Dear, and will pep you up ». She had been less than happy to find a pepped-up Sherlock firing at her precious bat-shaped sconce, and as little amused as Queen Victoria at Sherlock's ripost that he was showing some seasonal spirit.

Mycroft's contribution to the general zest and jollity had been a Get Well Soon card featuring Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Sherlock had pinned it to the wall and used the bears as his next firing target until John noticed that they all bore names – Lestrade's, Mrs Hudson's and his – in minute curlicued characters. Sherlock had ground his teeth and fit a bullet into his brother's signature.

That was when Little Bear had begun to worry and, acting on Mama Bear's wise cue, called Papa Bear for help.

"And how is our favorite cold case?" Lestrade asked with a robust geniality he knew to be excessively annoying as he stepped into the living room with an armful of folders.

Sherlock opened a glassy eye from the couch and merely signaled for the offerings to be deposited on the coffee-table, next to Mrs Hudson's latest puce concoction.

"Afraid they're rather small beer," Lestrade said, accepting John's handshake and John's coffee successively. "I did my best, but there's nothing much going on these days. Still, October's on its last legs, so cheer up – we may have a nice gutted-out pumpkin for you yet."

Sherlock's annoyed hiss ushered in a ten-minute pause, during which the two Bears commented the latest football results in hushed mutters. Lestrade had just appropriated the skull to reconstitute Mr Sagna's brilliant goal-line clearance when a lung-racking sigh called the game to an end.

"Primary school stuff, and I'm generous. Wife, wife, husband, wife, brother-in-law, hamster, wife. Yes, Lestrade, hamster. The wirings were obviously gnawed prior to the electrocution, and the presence of an eight-year single child is indicative of – oh, what's the use. Just go and arrest the little animal, that's what you do best."

"Look, I know they're not quite up Baker Street," Lestrade said pleasantly. "But it's really all I can do. Unless –"

Sherlock, now entwined to the sofa cushions like a fin-de-siècle young rajah, turned his face sharply. "Unless?"

"Well – there's that funny French case. But I'm really not allowed to tell you, even less show you the file. This one is so red-taped it's beginning to look like Christmas on the run. I wasn't even supposed to investigate, the DPG were calling dibs on it but —"

"The Diplomatic Protection Group?" Sherlock sat up, suddenly interested. "I wonder if – oh yes, that would be Mycroft to a T. Have the case transfered to you so you'd mention it to me and —"

"No, no." Lestrade raised a placid hand. "Don't worry, he's not going to bother you about this one. Fact is, he said he'd, er, be glad to offer his own assistance, but discretion was the better part of discretion."

"He would. Trust Mycroft's podgy hand to steal the cake when he sees it. But I'm certain I can beat him to it, even without a file." Sherlock turned to Lestrade and lifted his own long-fingered hand with languid sovereignty. "All right, give me."

"Look, I don't think —"

"Wouldn't you like to impress my brother, Lestrade? He'd certainly make a show of expressing his gratitude if you spared him the time and bother of a trip to Le Quai d'Orsay."

"Well —" Lestrade dipped his nose into his mug, rubbing the back of his silver-cropped neck pensively. "If John and you swear to keep it hush-hush... it's really a weirdo, this one, and I could use a word from the wise."

"Shoot ahead," John said, filling their mugs again.

"Right then. Well, it's about this woman, Madame – I'll call her Madame L. The Ambassador's first wife, who happened to settle in London with their daughter years before he received his marching orders. Looks like he ditched her for a pretty young thing on his very first posting but this was so long ago that no one would have connected them if he hadn't paid a visit to her new flat in Knightsbridge the day before the murders. And they were pretty grisly, let me tell you. The old lady, she had her throat slit with a cutter, and the girl was – was - oh god, I really don't know if –"

"Was what?" Sherlock croaked testily. "Stop pussyfooting, Lestrade. Raped? Maimed? Fed to a pack of bloodthirsty hamsters?"

"Stuck up in the chimney," Lestrade answered in a blanched whisper. He looked around, pinched a tube test from Sherlock's usual clutter on the table and proceeded to demonstrate with his coffee spoon. "Like this, head first, after she'd been —"

"Strangled?" John asked. It was his first quiet contribution since the beginning of the tale and Lestrade cast him a sharp look.

"Why yes, strangled. I thought of you, Sherlock, when I saw her at the Morgue – her neck bore those extraordinary fingerprints, very large and very apart. Way too apart to belong to a decently normal hand. But it can't have been the Golem if Moriarty offed him after the pip-pip fiasco."

"Oh, the pip-pip fiasco did him in all right," Sherlock drawled back. "A girl in a chimney? Intriguing. At least, it could provide John with a new sensationalist title. A Study in Flue, perhaps?"

"You two swore —oh, all right, have your little joke. Anyway. We arranged for a few SOCOs to comb the place discretely, and by the time I arrived, there were just the neighbours to question. And that's where the story gets even more screwed up."

Lestrade glanced quickly at John and carried on. "The flat belongs to one of these pre-War brick affairs they call a bijou residence in posh mags, which really means rotten acoustics and cig paper walls. So everyone heard the daughter cry out before she was strangled, and just before, everyone heard a voice in the flat, speaking some foreign language. But none of them can make up their minds on the damn lingo. One old bird claimed it was Italian. Said she'd just been through a rerun of the Sopranos and would swear to it on her Ma's Bible. Another said it was German. Then there was Russian, French, German and, would you believe it, Scots."

"I see. No, I don't." Sherlock, still seated in his lotus position, raised his steepled fingers to his chin. "Any other data?"

"A few. They found an open window – so the murderer must have escaped via the roofs. Oh, and there was a tuft of hair clutched in Madame L's hand – thick red hair. Well, I say red. Orange-ish, really."

"All in season," John commented suavely from his chair.

Sherlock's fingers began a hasty tattoo on his chin. "Chimney. Girl. Girl in chimney. Diplomatic scandal – no, too blatant. But then, the whole thing is blatant. Overdramatized, so it should be hushed all the quicker. So is it the place they're after, and the women were just an inconvenience? Unidentified lingo. Red hair – oh! Oh!"

"You're not running a fever, are you?" John asked. He tried to slip a hand under the moist bangs but Sherlock batted it away impatiently. "We can't have you on fire just now, chimney or no chimney."

"A Red-Headed League!" Sherlock exploded. "That's why no one could identify the voice – there were several of them, speaking in turn. Lestrade, you're looking for a European coterie of hoodlums ruled by a nine-feet man, Irish, not Scottish, with red hair and a case history of strangling tigers bare-handed. Good old Moran, always up for a lark."

"But —"

"John, you probably want to shut up. Lestrade, didn't you say Madame L had just rented the place? They must have hidden something there and come back for it, unaware that there were new tenants. Knightsbridge, Knightsbridge... yes! The Lloyds robbery – Seb's grapevine was positively buzzing with the news. You'd better start digging at the exact opposite spot to that chimney; put Sally to it, she's an expert in floor remodeling. Ha. I think I've given myself a sore throat, John; I'll have that Ibuprofen now, with a cup of tea."

One Ibuprofen and a rum-laced mug of Darjeeling later, Sherlock was snoring blissfully among the cushions. John tucked the slim legs into a blanket and turned to Lestrade quietly.

"So. Are you going to tell him it was an orangutan all the time?"

Lestrade sighed.

"Nah, don't think I'll have the heart. Though I'll admit that tricking the great Sherlock Holmes is a treat in itself. But Mycroft would claim my skin and bones for his next brolly if he learnt I've been implicating him in my little joke."

John chuckled.

"Well, I owe you for this – the fun and, more importantly, his first night's sleep in ten days. Let me buy you a pint? We'll make it a Killian's russet for good measure."

"You're on. And you can help me massacre _The Purloined Letter,_ in case he needs another bedtime story. I'm rather thinking of making the letter a photograph. This is the twenty-first century, mate – you don't write love letters, you text cute smileys."

"So, a woman compromised by a photograph?"

"D'you really think Sherlock would bother with that? No, the opposite – though we should keep the royal angle, I like it."

"But wait, if it's a King being compromised —"

The old stairs squeaked as they grabbed their coats and padded down into the gray drizzle, sharing the same happy conspiratorial grin.


	4. Seven Poems LestradeSherlock

**Seven Poems**

**Pairing : **Lestrade/Sherlock

**Rating **: PG

**Summary **: Pastiches and parodies of British classics, all written from Lestrade's POV. Warning for rotten metrics. The originals, which are infinitely classier, can all be found on the Internet.

**1. Lestrade has had it with Sherlock's eternal gabbling.**

For God's sake shut your gob and let me love,

Or cod my IQ, or my team,

My grizzly hair or ruin'd self-esteem,

The impossible state, tell me that you'll improve,

Get you a job, find you a wife,

Observe your brother, improve your life,

Say what-fucking-ever and, Jesus, I'll approve

So you will let me love.

(John Donne, _The Canonization_)

* * *

><p><strong>2. Lestrade watching Sherlock sleep. <strong>

Look, sunshine, just snuggle under my arm

'Coz I got news for you : I suck and you're human.

Neither getting a day younger, and even you,

You wonder, you one-of-a-kind, you hotshot,

You'll get burnt out come midnight, same as us yokels.

Least I can do is hold you through the night,

The limp warm sum of breathing, living you,

Fucked-up and dieable, but to me

Beautiful. Yeah, beautiful. Full stop.

(W. H. Auden, _Lay your sleeping head, my love_)

* * *

><p><strong>3. Their first meeting<strong>

It is a young noseyparker

And he stoppeth one of three.

"Look, son, you're clearly a doper

Why don't just let the fuck off?

There's a crime scene a mile wide

And me one of the VIPs.

The corpse is set, the SOCOs met,

I've no time for social niceties."

He holds him with his skinny hand,

"There was a clue," quoth he.

"Jesus! What part of 'not in the gang'...?"

The DI's hand falls limp.

He holds him with his glittering eye –

And Greg Lestrade stands still.

One thing he learnt as a DI:

If you can't lick'em, join'em.

Might as well sit his arse for a lull

And the most fucked-up tale _ever_:

Who knew a bloody big seagull

Could spawn a homicidal spree?

The Inspector sat with the nerd,

Having no choice really;

But in the end he caught the bird

And shagged the informant.

(T. S. Coleridge, _The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner_)

* * *

><p><strong>4. This one is gen, right?<strong>

Twinkle twinkle little sleuth,

How I marvel when you deduce!

Up above us on a high,

Lucy in the... Like a diamond in the sky!

When the good ol' sun is gone

(Just teasing you here, sunny)

Then your brain goes all-alight

Twinkle twinkle all the night.

And us plodders in the dark

Thank you for your little spark.

Couldn't see which way to go

If you did not twinkle so.

(Nursery rhyme, _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_)

* * *

><p><strong>5. After the Fall<strong>

Fact is, a sunrise in Dorset is a thing of magic.

It's like – well, the sun makes the hills stretch off

And the grass green up, like it gives them a kick,

Or a nice morning snog. It's chemistry. Sort of.

But then... one day, the clouds will resurface

And it's goodbye sunshine. Goodbye Sunshine.

And you never see that hard radiant face

Again, 'coz it's gone west in blood and brine.

Day starts like any day, any him-on-fire

And you all set out for your day in the sun,

And the next thing you know, he's a fraud, a liar,

A headline in The Sun. But whatever he's done,

He's still your all, your wall, your east, your fallen star.

(Shakespeare, _Sonnet 33_)

* * *

><p><strong>6. All's well that ends well<strong>

When you are old and grey, same as yours truly,

And "on fire" means "steal forty-winks at the hearth"

With the Universalis, and you go, "How on earth

Can I need spectacles, it's not like I can't see"

Not daring yet to say, "It's not like I observe"

The way you did when the crowds clapped you on,

When you had it all, the looks, the vim, the nerve,

And I alone loved the sinner in you, not the icon.

Then I'll bend down, you lazy sod, stoke the fire

So that it can murmur the wisdom of the bee,

Telling a blind wanker that some of us retire

From everything but love. Now fetch us some tea.

(W. B. Yeats, _When you are old and grey_)

* * *

><p><strong>7. Quod erad demonstrandum<strong>

There was a DI in a Yard

Whose hair turned a most suave lyard.

"Little grey cells! At last!"

Cried a genius unsurpassed,

And as a reward kissed the man long and hard.

[A/N : lyard = streaked or spotted with grey]

(Edward Lear's _Limericks_)


	5. Happy Ending Snow White

**5. Title **: Happy Ending

**Fusion with** : Snow White (Grimm rather than Disney). This was written before S2, so I regret to say that Jim and his apple play no part in it.

**Pairing **: Sherlock/John

**Rating **: PG-13

**Warning **: This chapter is somewhat angstier and mentions drugs in the first part.

_1. Once upon a time, there was a woman who was bored._

In all of Sherlock's cases, there is a story before the story.

Broken and secret, it waits for him to join its sharp edges together and make it whole again. Every time, Sherlock is drawn to the promise of a story like a child raising their hopes at nightfall, and so far he has managed to piece them all. But in Mother's case the tale keeps cracking apart - perhaps because Sherlock does not want to hear the whole story, the story that began not long after he was born.

He keeps one shard in a corner of his brilliant mind, where it strikes up a glint now and then, beckoning him to the past.

His fifth Christmas, and he has just discovered that he can see eye to eye with the pear-shaped keyhole on the library door. The hole is filled with chalky morning light and as Sherlock peeps into the light, it shows him Mother standing before a shelf of books and pushing a needle into her arm. Years later, he will remember how the dark-bound books, turning their backs on the scene, set off a pure white gleam in the glass syringe, hovering above the dot of red where Mother's white skin had broken.

The three-coloured picture is eerie and puzzling and _new_, and Sherlock gazes on in captivation until a tall hand falls on his neck, shoving him aside, and his father shatters the picture.

_2. She gave birth to a son, and he grew up to be beautiful. And bored._

Father increases the surveillance and the scene fades out, leaving the shards.

As he grows up, Sherlock can feel Mother's quiet eyes on him, scanning his dark hair and white relentless face with a hybrid of fear and longing — because he is so much like her in all his brilliance and impatience, yet still young enough to escape. And she thinks he should escape, and she does not want a reminder of what she used to be.

When he is eighteen she pushes him away, the apple of her eye; tells him to go to London and shine bright; tells him in a jagged hush that she will keep his heart with her, or he too will fall in love and grow bored to death.

And so he goes to London and locks himself in a small, dark, book-lined room. It does not take five years before he is standing before the bathroom glass, looking into his mother's eyes as he bares his arm to another red dot. Mycroft increases the surveillance but Sherlock escapes once again, and finds unexpected shelter in a Scotland Yard office.

'All right, we'll keep you,' Lestrade says, gruffly but affectionately, and adds something about cleanliness and godliness. Sherlock shrugs.

'I now live among the little men,' he tells Mother in the mirror. 'They're nice, but they're not much good. They trudge and trudge, and sometimes they come up with a nice bright case, but then it's over and I just lie down on my bed and shut my eyes. What shall I do?'

Mother's eyes are gazing back at him, filled with clarity and taut silver nerves, unanswering.

_3. And then the prince came, and they shared the apple._

Now and then, people try to shatter the glass house in which he lives. Some, like Donovan, by throwing stones repeatedly, others by tapping a shy finger like Molly. He smiles at them behind the hard glitter, not caring whether they bleed or leave.

Until John Watson shoots a cabbie across two glass partitions and Sherlock finds himself wide awake and trembling for the first time in years.

This has to be another story in the making, but so far Sherlock can't make head or tail of the shards. They include tea for two and fingers in the fridge, falling asleep together and racing killers across London, and sharing the mirror with John in the morning. There is no way the story makes sense, and Sherlock wonders if, one day, he will be able to look back and say : this is it. This is our tale.

But then, the story would have come to an end, and he does not want that. Better let let John type it then, one letter at a time so the tale can go on and on and have a happy open ending. After all, they live in the modern age.


	6. Socks Hell Homer Dante

6. **Title **; Socks, Hell, Homer

**Crossover with** : Dante's _Inferno_

**Rating **: PG

**Summary** : Sherlock ends up in Limbo with a glut of Virtuous Pagans. Written after I'd asked an anagram website for all possible combinations of "Sherlock Holmes".

Socks, Hell, Homer

Sherlock's final plan, in the way of all masterplans, had an unexpected fallout.

Not only did it slightly derail, toppling him head first into the Afterworld, but the Immortals were now having a field day trying to sort his fate. Hell was vociferous in its opinion that Sherlock's selfishness, rudeness and complete irresponsibility in saddling them with Jim Moriarty warranted a no-limit gift voucher for damnation. Heaven begged to remind Hell that Sherlock had died willing to sacrifice, if not his life, at least his fame, and that he'd be lockpicking his way past Peter anyway, so why not admit him directly.

Sherlock, after a few vain suggestions that they consult him on his choice, had slipped off and down quietly. Fire and brimstone were droolworthy experiment material, not to mention a first-hand tutorial with a number of Popes on the fine art of poisoning. Unfortunately for him, Heaven had already slipped Charon a few extra pennies, and Sherlock ended up stuck in the First Circle with a glut of Virtuous Pagans.

A fortnight after his arrival, the Virtuous Pagans went into meltdown and sent up a petition. They also sent up Homer to recite the petition, which had been couched in virulent hexameters. Sherlock, the hexameters complained, was a disgrace to the place. He'd driven both Thales and Euclid out of their wits by demanding they revise zero-based computing to accomodate Internet in Limbo. He kept calling Hippocrates John and, on one memorable occasion, had asked Queen Penthasilea to make him tea. There had even been mention of sugar - two pieces, mark the decadence! His deductions of Cicero's past political arrangements had been entirely uncalled-for. His hyacinthine curls and bright-eyed winks were derouting more than a fair share of kouroi from their virtuous agenda.

Even worse, he was the only worthy in Limbo to wear socks, and his flat refusal to stroll barefoot like everyone else, or even stroll at all, was an affront to their collective ethos. Limbo was humbly, firmly and dactylically expecting Above to deal with the mess. Or face the music and let Sherlock go _sto diaolo_.

Once Homer had said his say, with a last angry twirl of harp, Above made a quick survey of its own pristine venues. Granted, the man had defeated two mass-murderers and played a mean violin. Still... with the Archangelic elections at close quarters... and taking in consideration the Wise Virgin Anthea's latest report...

A compromise was struck between the two realms and Sherlock woke up, dizzy and disoriented, under London Bridge. He was rather surprised to find himself an old wizened man with a thatch of white hair and a collection of ancient books that included the complete works of Catullus. Still, the Virtuous Pagans, for all their resentment, had allowed him to keep his socks, and the warm woolly feel was enough to direct him towards John and Baker Street, happily hobbling.

[A/N: both the ending and "the complete works of Catullus" are a wink to ACD's canon story, "The Empty House".]


	7. Lessons and Parallels Harry Potter

7. **Title **: Lessons and Parallels

**Crossover-ish with** : Harry Potter

**Pairing **: Sherlock/John

**Rating **: PG-13 for innuendoes

**Summary **: Sherlock is a literature nerd. And a goddamn tease.

Lessons and Parallels

"So how are Sherlock and you dealing with the SMH?" Lestrade had asked during their last choke-a-beer session, adding that he'd be glad to lend John a hand if required. It had taken another bitter and a sudden lull in the constant ola of cheers in the telly corner for John to grasp that, no, the DI wasn't trying to talk him into a bit of triangular rough play.

"The Sunday Morning Hurdle," Greg explained patiently. "Took us four years to jump it properly, and that was before I got into djembe. Very relaxing, djembe, but the missus said it interfered with her Chi Gong. So I told her, June, I said, the djembe isn't _noise_, the djembe is a cultural heri —"

"Got your point," John cut in, knowing that Greg was prone to wax lyrical on behalf of the djembe after his third pint. "We, ah, we're doing fine. He's out most of the time - boxing or fencing, and God knows I envy him the vim at times. I stay home, read a book." Great, now he was sounding like some aggrieved Hausfrau. "Then he comes home, and we slap up some food, and he shoots— the time away, best as he can, until it's tea-time and news-time. No problem here."

Lestrade clapped twice, slowly, and John grinned. "All right, all right. Sunday mornings lack in home entertainment, but we get on."

"Tell you what," Lestrade said, summoning the bill with a practised sleight of hand. "Next Sunday, he and you are trading places. I have two tickets for Arsenal and, man, some arse they'll be kicking, I can tell you. He can stay home and read a book for a change."

* * *

><p>"But you can't go out!"<p>

Sherlock looked the very image of an eight-year old being told that his birthday had just been reassigned to February 31 by State decision. He crossed his arms and glared down his nose.

"I thought we'd both stay home today. And I need you to check on Mrs Hudson's home compost – it's hosting seventeen toxins that should be mature for analysis any time now. Asphyxiation by compost is tomorrow's mastercrime."

"Too bad." John slipped on an extra jumper, keeping an ear out for Greg's car. "You'll just have to babysit them yourself. Quality time, Sherlock. You've had plenty this winter, if I recall."

"But you won't be back before one!"

"So play the violin! Take Donovan fishing! Or if you want some home practice, what about the Strange Case of the Disappearing Potato Peeler? Even better – read a book for a change!"

But, even as the door shut him out, the look on Sherlock's face left John with an uneasy pinch in the region of his heart. He spent the next four hours trying to emulate Greg's hearty cheers – ("does wonders for your lungs, the djembe – you learn to vocalize as you play") – while wondering if Sherlock was busy blowing up 221B with compost fumes in retaliation.

* * *

><p>It lacked a quarter to one when Lestrade left him on a slightly sore-throated invite to come over and share the missus' shepherd pie. John took advantage of the sore throat to excuse himself before re-entering 221B with a cautious step. He was more or less expecting a welcome committee made up of half-dead larvae, sulfur, high nitrogen and Miss Bacteria 2011.<p>

Instead of which, he was greeted by the rich hot scent of chocolate wafting down from the top floor.

Blessing Mrs Hudson in his heart of hearts (as it uttered something suspiciously close to a gurgle), John jogged up the stairs, tugging at his vest. The door to their common room was ajar, and he pushed it to a chirping and crackling melody that came from their old chimney.

"Oh," Sherlock said, never lifting his head. "I'm afraid I've just poured myself the last dregs. There's that pack of six you left in the fridge, if you're thirsty."

John was no longer thirsty. Or hungry. He was, if anything, experiencing the condition once and memorably summed up by Wodehouse's Jeeves as: "The mind, sir, boggles". For his flatmate was half-seated, half-tucked on the couch, one leg stretching lazily onto the floor and the other crossed at the knee. A steaming mug stood on the coffee table; a book lay open on Sherlock's thigh; and Sherlock himself was sheathed in the closest, slimmest, stretchiest cord pants known to have hugged a male groin since Adam's of the pants, he wore a black turtleneck. As far as John recalled, it was the first time he had seen Sherlock in anything else than an open-necked shirt. It made him look slightly older, quite impregnable and dead sexy.

Of course, the older look might have come from the thick, black-rimmed glasses now framing Sherlock's elegant face.

Or wait, was that the sexy look?

"One of mine?" John asked, pointing to the book as he crossed over to the couch. He now felt as if he had piled on six layers of wool instead of two. Sherlock nodded, fingers drumming a light tattoo on his bare ankle as he bent his head to the page. Damn that fire, why did it make cardigan buttons so slippery ?

The book was a thick hardback, with a faded red and yellow cover that did look familiar.

"_The... Order of the Phoenix_?" John's gaze slid to the floor, where six other books were lying haphazardly. "You've read the whole saga in five hours? "

Sherlock hummed vaguely, reaching out for a sip of chocolate. John watched the soft full lips nudge at the rim, and found he was moistening his. "Any good? " he asked quickly.

"_Very_ good." Sherlock's voice, when it came at last, was all cream and darkness, yet without one grain of bitterness. John looked on, entranced. "In fact, her deconstructionist take on the father figure is quite _zeitgeistlich_ - I can see how it would tickle your inner Badiou." Sherlock had taken off the glasses and was waving them about, letting one of the branches tap against his lips. The lips parted, and the branch was sucked in slowly.

"My bad me," John repeated faintly. There was only one Rowling-esque thought in his mind at the moment, and it was that most of his blood had Apparated to a rather embarrassing locus on his anatomy. He pulled the cardigan swiftly over his lap.

A slender foot brushed his inner thigh: Sherlock was levering himself to his side of the couch. "Hmm-ah", Sherlock breathed out fervently, fitting the glasses back on. "But I'll grant you that adhesion to the generic code, in her case, does supersede the plurivocity of meaning. Take her portrayal of friendship, for instance. "

John nodded vigorously from his side. Here was a sentence that made sense at last, and might take his focus away from the burgeoning heat in his loins. He no longer trusted himself to speak.

"Sirius Black and Remus Lupin", the deep creamy voice went on. "_Such_ an interesting duo. Do you know, John, I find that Remus is really my favorite character. The man unafraid to face his scars and fears. The warrior, the protective friend. The truly significant other to Sirius – bright, mad, uncontrollable Sirius, a star trailing a black vortex in his fall. Doesn't he remind you of someone?"

John's mouth opened on a soft plaintive noise.

"In a book, I seek lessons and parallels", Sherlock murmured, drawing himself still closer to the edge. "I seek new ways of looking at the familiar, John, and new urges to act on what I see. "

"And what have you seen?" John rasped, letting his hands tumble from his lap as a long finger, lifted from an open page, touched the curve of his cheek.

"Mmmm? Ah, you'll have to ask me again at tea-time." Sherlock shook off his glasses with a quick jerk of the head, jumping off from the couch. "Is it half past one already? Mrs Hudson's asked me over – home-made lasagna, I believe, and there's the compost to double-check. "

"What? But wait, wait — you can't just —"

But Sherlock was sauntering away, hands in his corduroy pockets. John vocalized quickly and fiercely, borrowing a few of Bill Murray's coarsest expletives. Then went to check the fridge. Sherlock, as always, had been right. The fridge held a pack of six beers. It didn't hold anything else.

John sighed and stepped out on the landing, resigned to eat humble pie before pasta.

It was only when Mrs Hudson opened her door that he realized he was still clutching the oval glasses to his chest.


	8. Two of a Kind Fantasy

_Not exactly a crossover, but my first and last attempt to write Sherlock in a fantasy AU. I'm afraid it turned pretty crack – blame the prompt._

**Prompt **: Of all the boys in the gang, Sherlock is the only one who can tame a unicorn. Guess why ?

**Pairing** : S/J-ish

**Rating**: PG

Two Of a Kind

"Right, guys." Lestrade clipped his radio back and addressed the large oak tree on his right, careful to speak from the corner of his mouth. "Back-up in a ten, and the Wildlife Crime unit will take over from there. Meanwhile, we are to keep the evidence grounded."

Unfortunately, the evidence was showing no sign of willingness to be grounded. In fact, it was ambling off towards the further side of the glade, where it had its eye on a patch of wild strawberries.

Behind the oak, John took in a gulp of breath. "Give me your coat," he instructed Sherlock sternly. "I'll run a half-circle and beat it back to you. If it charges, break up the line and — what, now?" Sherlock was sporting Scowl number 3, aka "if-brains-could-kill-yours-_might_-disable-a-hummingbird".

"Really, John. I don't expect Lestrade or even Dimmock to be versed in the fundamentals of European lore—"

A double "Oi!" interrupted the tirade. "Who's an officer of the lore here, ye great twat?" Lestrade replied in somewhat heated tones. The unicorn, having received notice that there was after-dinner entertainment, was tossing a curious head in their direction.

"Sherlock, there's no reason to make a fuss. I've wrestled a desert sphinx in Helmand, I can do this."

Sherlock merely huffed. "And that, among other factors, is precisely _why_ you can't do this." He turned to Anderson and wrinkled his nose. "Nor he, for reasons germane to the uncensored version of "A Study in Pink". Nor Lestrade, unless the missus was more than justified to look elsewhere."

Lestrade opened and closed his mouth. Sherlock turned to Dimmock.

"You, on the other hand —" He tilted his head, inspecting the younger man's tie knot, and sighed. "Eton or Harrow? No, don't answer. You're no use whatsoever; in fact, none of you are. _Plus ça change_... Ah, there she is." The unicorn had geared into a dainty trot and was heading back in their direction, its head lowered in a graceful salutation. Four out of the five men instinctly cupped their hands over their groin area.

"Don't!" John and Lestrade bellowed together, but Sherlock was already stepping out toward the animal, his coat tossed dismissively to the ground. The unicorn paused at once and remained stock still as he ran a light-handed caress down its back. It whinnied, a short contented arpeggio, and returned the courtesy by nuzzling the detective's cheek. Sherlock's back was turned to them, but something in the way he patted the white mane told John that Scowl number 1 - "I'll-consent-to-walk-a-tad-longer-through-the-Valley-of-Dumbness" – had carried off the day.

The pastoral idyl would have been complete if a loud rumble had not signaled the arrival of the Wildlife Crime unit.

"Right." Lestrade cleared his throat. "If our loreboy would just tie his scarf round the neck of the evidence... some of us have actual work to do."

"Along with a spot of research," Anderson added with hardly concealed glee.

John didn't say anything. He watched the two haughty, lanky, milky-hued figures trading hieratic cuddles in the middle of the glade, and wondered which of them he truly envied.


	9. Gilbert and Sullivan Singalong

**Gilbert and Sullivan Singalong**

_An oldie that never made it to my LiveJournal, though it still makes me smile._

**Pairings : **Sherlock/John, Moriarty/Moran, Mycroft/Lestrade, Lestrade/Sherlock

**Rating **: PG-13 for Jim's perfectly scandalous behaviour towards pretty young sweethearts and wives

**1. Sherlock/John :**

"All right. D'you have a boyfriend?"

"Never."

"Never?"

"..."

"..."

"Well, hardly ever."

**2. Moriarty/Moran :**

"For I'm called Little Buttercup, Little Buttercup,

Though I could never tell why..."

"Blimey, Boss, it's three a.m. Cut the caterwauling and come back to bed."

"I've snuff movies and and excellent jack-knives

I've scissors and blades to cut off the faces

Of pretty young sweethearts and wives

I've mmfmrff..."

"Yeah, well, snipers should never be shy. You want a song and dance, Jim, I can provide both."

**3. Mycroft/Lestrade :**

I am the very model of a maj... minor State employee,

I have information brought to me through CCTV

I know the Queen of England, though in no way biblical,

Can name her sixty-one Corgis in order alphabetical.

* * *

><p>I know everyone's history, I am 1984,<p>

I answer baffled supremos, I've a pretty taste in brollies,

I'll remember every sobriquet my PA may favour,

In jiujitsu and baritsu I could floor the best Senseis.

* * *

><p>I've been known to coax a peace treaty from Arafat<p>

And show Comrade Putin the noble art of vodka-gin

I can smile winningly when smuggling men for chit-chat

And whistle all the airs from Sherlock's infernal violin.

* * *

><p>In fact, when I know what is meant by "blush" and "squee"<p>

When I feel brave enough to hazard a coy "woo-hoo !",

When "snog" and "shag" are no longer terra incognita to me

And I've had private lessons at a certain police HQ...

* * *

><p>In short, when I have a smattering of sentimental strategy,<p>

I'll be the very model of a minor government employee.

**4. Lestrade/Sherlock**

_(To be sung by a very drunk Lestrade during a Yarders' pub night. Sally, Anderson and Dimmock all volunteered to provide the mournful chorus. At first.)_

When Sherlock's not engaged in his experiments,

(_His experiments_)

Or rendezvousing a felon as one of his little jokes,

(_Little jokes_)

His capacity for innocent enjoyment

(_Innocent, my arse!_)

Is just as great as any honest bloke's.

(...)

Look, mates, just say the damn words after me, damnit !

Our feelings we with difficulty smother

(..._ Sir_?)

When watching over the handsome bugger.

(... _SIR_ ?!)

Ah, take one consideration with another,

(_Sir, you can't be serious, sir!_)

A DI's lot is not a happy one, happy one.

_(The chorus crumbles down in devastated whispers.)_


End file.
